Rodzina (7 page)

The baseball game turned into a boxing match. Chester sat on Spud, and Mickey cheered him on: "Smack him one! Hit 'im in the head. You can't hurt him there."

Spud and Chester went tumbling down the aisle, rolling like a bowling ball straight into Mr. Szprot. That woke him up, got Miss Doctor's attention, and put an end to the game in a hurry.

"SIT!" Mr. Szprot bellowed. "I don't want to hear a sound above a whisper from you louts. Sit there and thank God that you are here and not sleeping on the streets of Chicago."

At first there was silence, and then Mickey Dooley said quietly, "As the mother skunk said to the little skunk, 'Let us spray.'"

They all erupted into laughter, and I thought Mr. Szprot might put us off the train right there in Louse Creek, Nebraska, but Miss Doctor pushed him aside. "Rodzina," she said, "take this rowdy bunch and keep them quiet."

"But Miss Doctor, I didn—"

"Rodzina!"

I decided to tell them a story. That always quieted my brothers. Toddy and Jan were not twins but were born so close together and looked so much alike, everyone thought they were, for you couldn't tell where Toddy left off and Jan began. When they grew from babyhood to little boyhood, they did everything together. They even died together in a fire, which devoured Auntie Manya's house while she was looking after them there one night. After that, Auntie Manya went away, and we didn't see her again, tiny Auntie Manya who smelled of mothballs and tomato soup. I had told Toddy and Jan stories each night, and after they died I just continued, even though they were not around to hear. For a long time in the dark I told stories to little boys who were not there.

The orphans all gathered in the front of the car, close to the warmth of the stove. I settled myself in my seat by the window. Poking at some new holes in the knees of my stockings, I began. "I'll tell you about the time my papa won a pig in a raffle. He thought he'd lead it home on a string like a dog, but the pig, being no dog, just grunted and sat down. Papa tried to carry it. The pig squealed and squirmed so much, Papa dropped it and had to chase after it through the muddy streets until he caught it again. Papa decided he and the pig would take a streetcar."

"Get outa here," said Sammy. "You can't take a pig on a streetcar."

"I know that and my papa knew that, so he went into a bakery and got a flour sack. He put the pig in the sack, tied it up tight with string, and waited for a trolley. He paid his nickel, sat down, and shoved the pig underneath his seat. The pig began to squeal, and to cover the noise, Papa began to sing."

"What did he sing?" Lacey asked.

"That doesn't really matter. He—"

"But I want to know. What did he sing?"

"For Heaven's sake! Maybe 'Silver Threads Among the Gold' and 'The Song of the Polish Legion.' Now can I continue?"

Lacey smiled and nodded.

"Finally the pig grew silent."

"Was he dead?" asked Lacey.

"No, he was just quiet. Unlike you. Papa sat back and relaxed. And then an awful smell filled the streetcar. The air grew greenish and thick. The smell was coming from where Papa was sitting. People stared at him. They grumbled and moved away. Finally the streetcar rumbled to a stop, and the driver stood up and looked at Papa. Papa looked at the bag and the dark stain slowly spreading on it. He stood up, picked up the bag of pig and pig ... stuff, tipped his hat, and got off the streetcar." The orphans at my feet began laughing and slapping their knees—quietly, so as not to arouse Mr. Szprot again.

I finished my story. "He walked all the way home with that sack stinking in the sunshine. Even on Honore Street we could smell him coming. We ate on that pig for a month and laughed every time."

"I never heard of a sack full of pig before," said Mickey Dooley, "but I once knew a man had a sack full of snew."

"What's snew?" Lacey asked.

"Nothing. What's new with you?"

That Mickey Dooley. You never could get anything out of him but a joke. He was happy as a fly in a pie. He could be mighty annoying with his jokes, but I thought he must be the happiest kid I ever saw.

Everyone started telling funny stories then about their folks. "My pa," said Spud, "was so lazy, he used to hire someone to do his snoring!"

Sammy said, "We was so poor, even the cockroaches were starving."

"My ma was the knittingest woman you ever saw," Mickey Dooley put in. "She'd take yarn to bed with her at night, and every once in a while she'd throw out a sock."

And another day passed on the train, taking me from a lonely Chicago to who-knows-where. I ate jelly sandwiches, washed faces, stopped fights, and told stories.

Toward suppertime all was quiet and I had a few minutes to myself. I watched out the window. Soon we would be in Cheyenne, and someone else might want to take me, and I would not want to go. What would happen to me? Through the growing dusk, I could see distant tepees, herds of grazing animals, dark unknown shapes. My thoughts were as gloomy as the night.

The train stopped at an eating station but, occupied with our cold potatoes and wrinkled apples, we did not get off. The water tower, painted with an advertisement for Stonebreaker's Indian Gum Syrup for the Gut, was ringed by emigrant wagons. As I watched, families tended horses, pitched tents, and unloaded big iron kettles, rocking chairs, and old battered trunks tied with rope.

I imagined Mama and Papa there with them, going west. "My Rodzina," Papa would say, "my little jelly doughnut. Come down from that train and join us in our wagon. We will all go west together and open a restaurant, where we will sell your mama's egg noodles and poppyseed cake."

"Polish girl," Mr. Szprot called to me from the door of our car. "Come here."

What now? I got up and plodded over to him. "I do have a name," I told him.

"What?" Mr. Szprot asked.

"Me. I have a name. Rodzina. My name is Rodzina."

He and Miss Doctor stepped off the train and motioned me to follow.

Mr. Szprot said, "Polish gi—" but Miss Doctor interrupted. "Miss Brodski," she said, "we must send some telegrams from the station here. We want you to keep the children quiet and orderly."

"Make everyone stay put," Mr. Szprot added.

I nodded and climbed back on the train. I was completely in charge. My chest swelled with importance.

"All right, you guttersnipes," I said to the orphans under my command. "Pipe down and stay put."

The car was full of giggles and snorts. I gave them the stink face. "What's so funny?" Not a word. I looked around. "Where's Lacey?" The whole car exploded into laughter.

Spud pointed out the window at the covered wagons. "I told that copperknob those was circus wagons," he said through his guffaws, "and there was clowns and acrobats and an elephant. And the dummy believed me!"

"WHERE IS SHE?" I bellowed.

"Out there," he said, "going to the circus."

Radishes! I wasn't even in charge for five minutes and one of the orphans was missing!

"I'll go get her. All of you stay here!" The girl
was
feebleminded. A circus indeed! I tore out the back door and over to the wagons.

It was a mild evening for early April, not quite dark yet. Folks were sitting around a fire, and there was Lacey in the middle, eating cornbread, with butter and a big smile all over her face.

"Lacey," I called. "Come here." The folks all turned to look at me.

"You the body told this child we was a circus?" one woman asked.

"No, that was Spud. He enjoys tormenting Lacey because she is slow. Come on, Lacey. We got to get back before Miss Doctor and the Szprot do."

"Now, wait a minute," said a gent with long skinny arms and big yellow teeth like piano keys. "You don't want to let that Spud fella think he got the best of Little Miss here." He scratched his sunburned nose. "Have a seat. We ain't no circus, but I can do this—" He pulled six potatoes out of a sack and juggled them like a regular music-hall fellow. I knew we should hurry back, but I had never seen someone juggle potatoes before, so I sat.

"And I this." An old man pulled out a fiddle and began to play "Turkey in the Straw," while a black-and-white dog walked on his hind legs, an old lady in a yellow sunbonnet pulled an onion out of Lacey's ear, and a fat little boy did ten somersaults in a row. Lacey and I ate pie and popcorn and drank apple cider, so good after our days of jelly sandwiches, and we clapped and cheered.

I was worried about getting back to the train, so after ten minutes or so we wrapped the rest of the popcorn in a newspaper cone, said hasty goodbyes, and hurried off.

Miss Doctor and Mr. Szprot were already on the train. The car was hectic and noisy. I heard Mr. Szprot say, "Where in tarnation is that Polish girl?"

"I'm here, I'm here," I said as we clambered up the steps. "Just stepped out for a breath of air."

I passed by the boys in their seats and gave them an if-you-say-anything-I'll-clobber-you look.

"You, Polish girl," said Mr. Szprot, grabbing my arm and twisting me around, "are useless. You will be leaving us at the next stop; I don't care if you're taken by grizzly bears or men from the moon. You are gone!"

Tarnation! He might as well throw me off the train right here to be picked up by whatever wretch-on-horseback happened along. My stomach wobbled. I could have used some of Stonebreaker's Indian Gum Syrup for the Gut right about then.

Once the train started up, the boys came over, giggling and poking at Lacey. "Did ya see the circus, Lacey?" Spud asked. "Were there animals and clowns and acrobats?"

Lacey's eyes shone in the reflected gaslight. "Oh, yes. And a magician and a dancing dog. It was wonderful. I never thought to see such a thing as a circus." She unwrapped the newspaper bundle of popcorn, put a few kernels in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "But I wish we could have stayed to see the elephant."

The boys all turned toward me. "What is she talking about?" asked Spud. "That was no circus."

I smiled sweetly. "I think I liked the juggler the best," I said as I settled down next to Lacey. "And the pie."

At that the boys all ran to the end of the train and, pushing and shoving each other for a better view, looked out as we pulled away, leaving the wagons far behind.

The train rushed through the night. After a long time a warm red star twinkled near the tracks, and we came upon a tiny wayside station with gray windows and people waiting outside. Some people got off the train. Where were they going? What did they want? What were they looking for? In a flash the train was off again and they were left behind. All was darkness again. Did those people have any notion how almighty lonely they were going to be?

N
EXT MORNING
I
BUMPED
into Mickey Dooley at the water bucket. "Know what kind of fish live in a water bucket?" he asked, his eyes as usual looking here and there at the same time. He didn't wait for an answer but waved the dipper at me and said, "Wet fish. Get it? Wet fish."

I wanted to keep on thinking my dreary thoughts and not be interrupted with fish jokes. "Why do you keep joking about nothing all the time?" I asked him. "We're coming up to Cheyenne, where we'll be sold like chicken feed to farmers. Aren't you worried?"

"Water you mean?" he asked.

"Why—" I began, and then stopped my questions. His left eye had managed to quit its wandering and look right at me. I could see sadness there. Why, I reckoned he was just as worried as I was. He just couldn't say so. I figured the least I could do was pretend right along with him. "Wet fish! You sure are one funny fellow, Mickey Dooley," I said as I took the dipper he handed me. "Wet fish."

Back at my seat I watched out the window again. The flat, stubbly prairie looked like Papa's face when he needed a shave. Here and there were herds of animals Chester thought were antelope. Or moose. Or elk. Sure weren't buffalo, he said.

Luncheon? Apples and jelly sandwiches, of course, but by now the bread was dry except where the jelly had soaked in and made it soggy, and the jelly was mostly crusty sugar crystals, which crunched between my teeth. We also had milk and hard-boiled eggs that Szprot had bought at our last stop, but my mouth longed for something sour—a dill pickle or sauerkraut or Mama's headcheese with vinegar.

Nellie came and leaned against my legs. "I don't want to go west," she said. "Spud said the west is full of murderers and guns and wildfires. I'm plumb scared of the west." She was little and pale, and I was still worried that Miss Doctor would get rid of her, like she did Gertie, so I put aside my own thoughts for a moment.

"No. He's wrong. West is a good place to go," I told her. I lifted her up and settled her between Lacey and me. "My mama used to tell me a story about the west, when we first came from Poland, heading west to a whole new country. Seems there was a—"

"Once upon a time," said Nellie, nose dripping on my sleeve. "That's how stories start."

"Okay, then. Once upon a time in a town far away in Poland lived a tailor named Matuschanski. He was a very tall man with a very long nose and a very long beard. And he was so thin, he could pass through the eye of his own needle, so thin he fell through the cracks in the sidewalk, so thin he could eat only noodles, one at a time. But he was a kind man and a very good tailor."

Lacey snuggled closer to Nellie so that she could listen, until all three of us were pressed right up against the window of the train.

I went on. "One day a Gypsy passing through town cut her foot on a stone. She came to see the tailor, who darned it so neatly there was no scar. As payment, she read his fortune in his palm: 'If you leave this town on a Sunday,' she said, 'and walk always westward, you will reach a place where you will be king.'"

Chester and Mickey Dooley came and sat on the floor by my feet. "'Well,' said the tailor, 'I will never know whether or not she was right unless I go.' And so Pan Matuschanski packed up a bundle with a needle, a thousand miles of thread, and a pair of scissors."

"A thousand miles of thread?" asked Chester. "Im-possible."

"Possible in this story. Just listen. All the tailor knew of west is that it was where the sun set, and so he walked that way. After seven days he reached the kingdom of Splatt.